(My fiancé and I attend college in Florida. I’ve spent most of the past three years outside, and have tanned despite frequent applications of sunscreen. We’re driving to see my parents for their 35th anniversary, and stop to get food.)

Cashier: “We don’t serve immigrants here!”

(My fiancé is from Scotland, but hasn’t said anything. He turns to leave and is holding the door for me.)

Cashier: “Sir! You don’t have to leave; just that illegal chica.”

Fiancé: “First, I’m the immigrant. Second, my ‘chica’s’ shirt says ‘You Don’t Scare Me. My Dad’s A United States Marine.’ It’s pretty obvious she’s a citizen. Third, my money isn’t going to your paycheck.”

Cashier: “No citizen is THAT dark!”

Me: *snort* “Then why are you here?”

(Another customer has come up and bursts out laughing.)

Cashier: “What do you idiots find so funny?”

(The other customer approaches and points at the cashier’s skin.)

Other Customer: “Your tan is darker than hers!”

(The other customer then turns to me.)

Other Customer: “Is your dad a Marine?”

Me: “Yes, sir! He’s [rank and unit]. Yours, sir?”

(The other customer gives his rank, and turns to my fiancé.)

Other Customer: “You treat that young lady right.”

(I usually work day shift, but my manager has asked me to work an evening shift to cover a staff absence. A coworker is getting cooked chicken strips out of the fryer to serve a customer, and he drops one on the floor. He throws it back into the fryer.)

Me: “Hey [Coworker], what are you doing?”

Coworker: “Freshening up the chicken.”

Me: “What? You’re not going to serve that, are you?”

Coworker: “Yup, it’s fine; you just need to fry it a bit.”

Me: “No you don’t! You need to throw it out and cook a new one!”

Coworker: “[Manager] said this was fine! The hot oil kills germs.”

Me: “No way!”

(I make him re-cook the order, and go find the manager and explain what happened.)

Manager: “[Coworker], what the h***! You do NOT serve food that’s been on the floor!”

Coworker: “You said that we didn’t have to follow hygiene for fried food; you said the hot oil kills germs. That’s what you told me.”

Manager: “I said you don’t need to wear gloves to handle frozen food that’s going in the fryer as long as you have washed your hands. What made you think it was okay to serve food that’s been on the floor?”

Coworker: “What’s the difference?”

Manager: “In the back. Now.”

(The scary thing? I’d eaten there in the evenings because I knew we had really good kitchen hygiene. At least, the day shift did…)

(I’m working at a restaurant that sells fried chicken. A customer approaches me after she has eaten her entire meal. The tray she’s carrying only has picked-clean chicken bones on it.)

Me: “How can I help you?”

Customer: “Yeah, I ordered the white meat chicken meal, but got dark meat pieces instead. You need to give me a new meal.”

Me: “I’m sorry for the confusion, but the white meat chicken meal comes with a breast and wing, which is what you received.”

Customer: “No, you gave me a leg and a thigh. I paid extra for the white meat meal and I demand that you give me a replacement!”

Me: “Again, I’m sorry for the confusion, but as you can see by the chicken bones on your tray, this piece was a breast piece. See the rib bones here, and this piece was a wing.”

Customer: “Get me your manager NOW!”

(My manager has heard the interchange and cordially comes over.)

Manager: “I’m terribly sorry for the mistake, ma’am; here’s a replacement meal for you.”

(My manager hands her another white meat meal.)

Customer: “It’s about time!”

(After the customer leaves, having left the tray with the chicken bones on it, I turn to my manager.)

Me: “Why did she get a free replacement meal when it’s obvious that she got and completely ate what she ordered?”

Manager: *smiling sadly* “The customer always thinks they’re right, even when they’re wrong. And especially when all they want is to throw a fit for free food. I’ve learned it’s easier to just give them what they want than to try to convince them to be decent people.”

Me: “The customer is always right?”

Manager: “Even when they’re wrong!”

(Our restaurant is along a fairly popular tourist route. It’s not uncommon to get customers from out of the country during the summer and fall seasons. I hear my coworker having an argument with a customer.)

Coworker: “I already told you we don’t serve that here!”

Customer: “Of course you do; I can see them from here.”

Coworker: “I don’t know what you’re looking at but we don’t sell chips. If you want some that badly you can go to the gas station across the street.”

Me: “Is everything okay?”

Coworker: “This guy wants chips but we don’t sell chips! He won’t listen to me.”

Me: “Sir, you would like to order some chips today?”

Customer: “Yes please.”

(I ring the order in myself and bring the customer his ‘chips.’ He leaves happily.)

Coworker: “What the… you just gave him fries!? How—”

Me: “He’s from England; they call fries ‘chips.’ Didn’t you notice his accent?”

Coworker: “Oh… I guess he did talk kind of funny…”

(Since I am rather small, fast, and quiet, I unintentionally sneak up on my coworkers a lot. Because of this they nickname me ‘Ninja.’ Every Christmas, we do a secret Santa game. My manager is passing out the presents.)

Manager: “[My Name], who is that?”

Me: “That’s my name; my real one.”

Manager: “Oh god! I’ve been calling you ‘Ninja’ for so long I forgot your real name, sorry!”

Me: “That’s okay; I love my nickname!”

(I proceed to rip open my present to find a set of hair bows that all have bells on them.)

Coworker: “Well, there goes your nickname…”

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